"Jesus Wept": The Compassionate Heart of God | Alumni Lenten Retreat Talk | Loyola Marymount Unvierity, Los Angeles

My dear sisters and brothers,

Among the shortest verses in the Bible, one stands out with immense power: “Jesus wept.” In today’s Gospel, the raising of Lazarus (John 11:35), we encounter this deeply moving moment.

It is striking, even shocking, when we pause to think about it.

Jesus knows what is about to happen. He knows Lazarus will rise. He knows the tomb will not have the last word. Yet, He still weeps.

Why would God weep?

This is the first point for our reflection: the shock of a weeping God. Often, we imagine God as distant, untouchable, almost immune to human suffering. But here we see something very different. Jesus does not bypass human pain. He does not stand above it. Instead, He enters into it. He allows Himself to be affected by the grief of Mary and Martha, by the tears of the community, by the reality of death that wounds human hearts.

This moment reveals something very important about God. God is not indifferent. The heart of God is moved. The theology we often discuss in abstract terms becomes very tender here. The Sacred Heart of Jesus is not stoic or cold; it is a heart wounded by love. Love makes the heart vulnerable. Love allows itself to feel.

In a sense, our own hearts become a kind of tabernacle where God chooses to dwell. Just as God chose humble places—the crib of Bethlehem, the broken city of Jerusalem, an ordinary tomb to lay down—God also chooses our hearts. Sometimes those hearts are joyful, but often they are also wounded, confused, or tired. Yet God enters them.

Jesus weeps because He sees Mary’s grief. He sees the pain of the sisters. He sees the sorrow of the crowd. But beyond that moment, He also sees the suffering of humanity itself—the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten. Jesus’ tears are the tears of a God who refuses to remain untouched by the human condition.

This is very close to what Pope Francis constantly reminds us about mercy. Mercy is not just a theological concept or a beautiful word in a homily. Mercy is God’s response to human misery. God sees our weakness, our sin, our brokenness, and He responds not with condemnation but with compassion. Pope Francis often says, “God never grows tired of forgiving; we are the ones who grow tired of asking.”

In the story of Lazarus, we also notice something else about Jesus. He does not rush. When He hears that Lazarus is sick, He does not immediately run to Bethany. When He arrives, He listens. He asks questions. He speaks to Martha. He encounters Mary. And finally, He stands before the tomb.

That moment is very powerful: Jesus standing before the tomb. Each of us also has our own “tombs.” These are the places in our lives where hope seems buried. Sometimes it is a relationship that feels broken beyond repair. Sometimes it is a deep disappointment, a failure, a wound we carry silently. Sometimes it is a loss we have never fully processed. Sometimes it is a part of ourselves we believe cannot change.

The question for us today is very simple but very personal: Where do I need Jesus to stand before my tombs? Like Mary and Mary, where in my life do I feel the story is already finished?

In the spirituality of St. Ignatius of Loyola, we often speak about consolation and desolation. Consolation is when we feel close to God, when hope and love are alive within us, and when there is assuredness, clarity, and joy in us. Desolation is when we are in doubt, confusion, sadness, we feel distant, discouraged, or spiritually dry.

Sometimes Jesus seems late. Martha even says it clearly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. ”Many of us have probably prayed something similar: “Lord, where were you? Why didn’t you come sooner?” Yet in God’s mysterious timing, even death itself becomes the place where God reveals His glory.

Please keep in mind: before Lazarus walks out of the tomb, Jesus wept. The miracle does not erase the tears. The tears come before the miracle.

And perhaps that is the message we need today. God does not erase our pain by pretending it does not exist. Instead, He enters it. He stands beside us. He cries with us.

So, as the event of Lazarus reminds us that even in moments of desolation—when everything seems dark and final—God is still present and working. All we need to do is be patient, do not rush, and give God a chance. Trust in God and trust in the inspirations and resources gathered in moments of consolation like this retreat. Keep in mind, desolation is temporary, and it will pass away. But consolation is lasting, and it will surely return.

And so, when we look at our world today—with all its misunderstandings, condemnations, judgments, wars, injustice, untruth, and pride—we can almost imagine the same scene repeating itself.

Jesus, who once wept, is standing before the tomb of our wounded lives, families, humanity, and He still weeps.

He weeps in our hearts.
He weeps in our families.
He weeps in the Church.
He weeps in our wounded world

He weeps in our leaders in their judgments, condemnations, untruth, and pride.

He weeps for victims of injustice, violence, and war.
He weeps for the poor and forgotten.
He weeps for hearts hardened by pride and fear.

But the story does not end with tears.

Standing before the tomb, Jesus finally cries out with a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” The God who weeps is also the God who calls us back to life. (And we are going to focus on that in our next talk).

But remember, before Lazarus walked out, Jesus first called him by name. That is how God works. He does not deal with crowds; He calls persons. He calls each of us personally, lovingly, patiently.

And perhaps today, in the silence of this retreat, the Lord is standing before one of the tombs in your life. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Not with impatience, but with tears. Not with judgment, but with hope.

And He is ready to speak life again.

So, as we end this reflection, let us take a moment of silence and ask ourselves:

Where does Jesus weep in my Life?

If Jesus were to call my name today—inviting me to step out of fear, hurt, or desolation—what is the stone I must allow Him to roll away?

Make America God's Again | Daily Reflection

To read the texts click on the texts: Jer 7:23-28;Lk11:14-23

Today, the Word of God confronts us with a very simple but unsettling invitation:

While the first reading, in the book of Jeremiah, God says, “Listen to my voice… then I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” (Jeremiah 7:23).

The psalm echoes the same plea: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.”

And then in the Gospel, Jesus sharpens this point even further, saying, “Whoever is not with me (in other words, whoever does not listen to my voice and does not do my Father’s will) is against me.”

While these words invite us to make a choice, to decide whose side we are on, they could sound specifically urgent and perhaps threatening in a moment like this.

We live in a time of deep division—nations against nations, communities against communities, ideologies against ideologies— polarizations, discriminations, wars, weapons, distrust, and where fear has become a kind of silent policy.

But the Gospel asks a deeper question: Whose kingdom are we building?

Saint Ignatius invites us to think about this in the contemplation on the Two Standards in the Spiritual Exercises as: The kingdom of the devil marked by Riches, Pride, and Honor, or the Kingdom of Christ characterized by exactly the opposites: Poverty (both spiritual/physical), Humility, and Contempt.

Even though it is highly tempting to apply these standards immediately to our current politics or society, it nevertheless applies to our hearts as well.

We cannot claim to build the kingdom of Christ, who is the Prince of Peace, while quietly accepting a culture that glorifies violence, domination, wars, and the power of division and the sword.

And Jesus is very clear elsewhere in the Gospel: “Those who take the sword will perish by the sword.”

Violence may promise security, but in the end, it only multiplies suffering. And wherever there is suffering in the world, there is no real peace. And where there is no peace, no one is truly free.

Think about the places in the world today where bombs fall as we speak. In those places, there may be victory or defeat, but there is also suffering, pain, losses, bloodshed, and rarely peace.

And this is where the Lenten invitation becomes very concrete. It invites us not just to “giving things up”. But very much also to love differently, to love like the way Jesus did and would do even today.

In other words, it is an invitation to give Jesus/God a chance. It is about deciding again whose side we want to be on, because Jesus says today: “Anyone who is not with me is against me.”

This “to be with Christ” means to stand with Him who heals, not with the powers that wound. It means believing

that radical humility is stronger than pride,

that love is stronger than fear,

that forgiveness is stronger than vengeance,

that mercy is stronger than violence,

and that conversation is more powerful than weapons of mass destruction.

Only when we take God’s side in this way can we truly become God’s people. Applying it to our own context, it is only then that we could (let me be the first one to say this) Make America God’s Again, if you need a different take on the M A G A.

So today, let’s ask ourselves these simple questions, both individually and collectively:

Whose side do I stand on currently?

Am I willing to give God a chance?

In so doing, am I willing to make my life, my family, my community, my country, and America, God’s again?

Quench Him & Be Quenched | Sunday Homily

To read the texts click on the texts: Ex17:3-7; Rm 5:1-2, 5-8; Jn 4:5-42

Dear Sisters and Brothers,

On this Third Sunday of Lent, we find ourselves at a well.

In the Bible, as much as we know from our own local traditions, wells are places of encounter — and very often, they end in marriage.

Think of the Old Testament:In the Book of Genesis 24, Abraham sends his servant to find a wife for his son Issac, and the servant prays for a sign at a well. Rebekha arrives and offers water to him and his camels. This act of hospitality confirms that she is chosen.
In Genesis 29, Jacob arrives in Haran and meets Rachel at a well covered by a stone, and he helps uncover the stone—and they fall in love.
In Book of Exodus 2, Moses meets the daughters of Jethro at a well in Midian—and later he marries one of them, Zipporah.

So, in Scripture, when you see a well, you almost expect a wedding.

So, when Jesus sits by the well in Samaria and asks a woman for a drink, every Jewish listener, including his disciples, who were rightly amazed at seeing him talking to a woman at the well, would recognize this pattern.

But this marriage is different. It is a love story. But not the kind we expect.

Jesus is not looking for a bride in the romantic sense. He is revealing Himself as the Bridegroom of her human soul.

Jesus sees the woman completely and knows her past fully well. And yet — He does not shame her. He names her brokenness — but He does not reject her. He not only reveals her thirst but also offers her the living water.

This is the difference. At other wells, a man meets a woman, and love begins through attraction and promise. Here, love begins through truth and mercy.

See the paradox: while it is Jesus who asks for water, it is the woman who is quenched of her thirst.

So, dear sisters and brothers,

Lent is like coming to the well.

We come with our thirst – from our various walks of life… from mountains of transfigurations, glory, and lights, to our deserts of temptations, doubts, confusions, and struggle, as we have seen last weeks; from our Jordans of clarity, assuredness, identity, to our calvaries of suffering, hunger, misunderstanding, rejection as we are eventually going to see in the coming week.

But with Christ as our well, the Well of Truth, we realize something essential, and that is where the divine romance happens.

That’s where the Samaritan woman leaves her water jar behind — a symbol of her old thirsts— and runs to the village with a new thirst.

She becomes the first missionary in John’s Gospel. This is what falling in love with Christ truly is.

The Samaritan woman’s life does not instantly become simple. But her heart changes because she has encountered Someone who sees her fully and loves her anyway.

This is the heart of Lent.

We are not simply “giving things up.” We are learning to love differently.

We are learning to love Jesus, who not only says “Give me some water to drink” at the well, but also who cries, “I thirst” on the Cross.

Today, we are living in a complex moment in American history and in the world. There is polarization, uncertainty, social tensions, economic anxiety, wars, and deep cultural shifts. Many people are tired. Many are thirsty. And Jesus is thirsty. Christ remains seated at the well, and he is thirsty. He remains hanging on the Cross, and her is thirsty.

It is tempting to react with fear. With anger. With withdrawal.

But the Gospel today invites us into something deeper:

Not just moral reform—but love.

Not to condemn—but to converse.
Not to strike—but to heal.
Not to accuse—but to invite.

Today, imagine yourself at that well.

Jesus looks at you—at your history, your struggles, your unspoken fears, about the future of this country, the Church, this world.

And He says: “Give me a drink.”Will you quench his thirst today,

Lent: A Second Time | Daily Reflection

Lent: A Second Time

To read the texts, click on the texts: Jon 3:1-10; Lk 11:29-32

The readings today place before us a quiet but powerful truth: God is less interested in dramatic signs and grand gestures than in hearts that are willing to change. Jonah’s second call to Nineveh reminds us that God does not easily give up on us. The word of the Lord comes again—not because Jonah was perfect, but because God is persistent in mercy. Lent, too, is this “second time”: another chance to listen, to respond, to begin again.

What is striking about Nineveh is not Jonah’s eloquence—his message is brief and stark—but the people’s openness. They believed in God. From the greatest to the smallest, including the king himself, they step down from positions of comfort, power, and certainty. Sackcloth and ashes are outward signs, but the true conversion happens within: “every man shall turn from his evil way and from the violence he has in hand.” Their repentance is communal, embodied, and concrete. And God sees—not their fear, but their actions—and relents. In the Gospel, Jesus alludes to Jonah, indicating that even though He stands greater than Jonah and greater than Solomon, still their hearts remain closed. The invitation of Jesus, therefore, is to stop searching for extraordinary proofs and instead recognize God’s presence in the ordinary, demanding moments of daily life: in conscience, in Scripture, in the quiet invitations to repent and return.

Psalm 51 gives voice to the inner movement behind such conversion. “A heart contrite and humbled, O God, you will not spurn.” Lent strips us of the illusion that we can earn God’s mercy through performance or sacrifice alone. What God desires is honesty: a clean heart, a steadfast spirit, a willingness to stand truthfully before Him. This kind of humility is not weakness; it is courage—the courage to admit we need mercy and to receive it. Lent, then, is not about waiting for a sign but about becoming one. Like Jonah, our lives are meant to point beyond ourselves. Like Nineveh, our communities are called to collective conversion. And like the psalmist, we are invited to trust that God never rejects a heart that turns toward Him—however late, however imperfectly.

Questions for Reflection:

1.     Where might God be calling me “a second time” this Lent, and how am I responding?

2.     What concrete action—not just intention—can express my repentance and desire for change?

3.     Am I seeking signs from God, or am I willing to recognize His presence in what is already given?

 

The “IF” That Tries to Steal Your Identity | Sunday Homily

Imagine this weekend as your desert.

In the Gospel, Jesus has just heard the most powerful words of His life at His baptism:

“You are my beloved Son.”

And immediately — immediately — He is led into the desert. And what does the devil say?

“IF you are the Son of God…” Not “Since.” Not “Because.” But IF.

That tiny word (clause) is the whole temptation. The enemy’s greatest strategy is making you question what God has already declared.

1. The “IF” Attacks Identity

Notice something important: The devil does not tempt Jesus first with bread, or power, or spectacle. He tempts Him with doubt about who He is.

“IF you are the Son of God…”

The temptation is not about hunger. It is about identity.

And that same “IF” whispers to you.If you were really smart, you’d have a 4.0.
If you were really attractive, you’d have someone.
If you were really faithful, you wouldn’t struggle.
If you were really successful, you’d already have a plan.

At a place like LMU, where excellence surrounds you, the “IF” can be relentless.
If you don’t get the internship…
If you don’t get into grad school…
If you don’t measure up…


2. The Three Temptations — Modern Versions

1️⃣ “Turn these stones into bread.”

Today that might sound like:

“Turn your gifts into productivity. Prove yourself. Be useful. Perform.”

We are tempted to believe: My worth = my output. Grades. Resume. LinkedIn. Achievements.

But Jesus refuses to reduce Himself to productivity.

You are not what you produce.


2️⃣ “Throw yourself down.”

This is the temptation to perform faith publicly.
To impress.
To curate.

Today it might look like:Posting spirituality but not living it.
Wanting admiration more than integrity.
Living for applause — even subtle applause.

Jesus refuses to perform.

3️⃣ “All this I will give you…”

Power. Influence. Control.

For students, this can look like:Compromising values for advancement.
Choosing status over substance.
Letting ambition outrun conscience.

Jesus refuses shortcuts.

3. The Real Battle: Habits

Weekend is beautiful. But Monday is coming.

The “IF” returns in habits:The habit of comparison.
The habit of scrolling instead of praying.
The habit of overworking.
The habit of numbing.
The habit of self-doubt.

The desert isn’t dramatic. It’s daily.

The question is: What voices are forming you?

4. The Jesuit Lens

At a Jesuit university, we talk about the formation of the whole person.

But formation requires:Silence.
Honesty.
Discernment.

The devil tempts Jesus when He is hungry. Temptation often strikes when we are tired.

This weekend gives you space to hear again what God said at baptism: “You are my beloved.”

Not:If you succeed.
If you are perfect.
If you fix yourself.

Just beloved.

5. The Question for You

Here’s the introspective question:

What is the “IF” in your life?

Notice this: Jesus doesn’t need to prove Himself. He knows who He is. The desert does not define Him. It reveals Him.

The invitation, therefore, is not for becoming someone new. It is for remembering who you are. Giving God a chance to assert who you are. 

7. Closing for Retreat Context

As you return from this weekend:

The real test is not what you felt here.
It is what you believe when the “IF” returns.

When you sit in class.
When you face temptation.
When anxiety rises.
When comparison creeps in.

Will you live from “IF”? Or from “Beloved”?

Final Challenge

This week, when the “IF” whispers…

Pause.

Say: “I am already beloved.”

And then act from that identity.

Because the greatest temptation in college is not failure. It is forgetting who you are. One (not many), True (not fake), and beautiful (always in the eyes of God).

Amen.

How Mature Is Your Faith? | Daily Reflection

To read the texts click on the texts: 1Kings 11:4-13; Mk 7:24-30

Today’s Gospel presents us with a difficult moment. A foreign/ Syrophoenician woman comes to Jesus, begging Him to heal her daughter.

At first, He seems to ignore her. Then He says something that sounds harsh: “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”

It can trouble us. Why would Jesus speak like this?

But if we look more closely, we see that this is not a story about rejection. It is a story about faith being drawn out, strengthened, and revealed.

This woman is desperate. Her daughter is suffering. She has heard of Jesus. She believes He has the power to heal. And so she comes — crossing social, cultural, and religious boundaries. She has no “claim” on Israel’s Messiah. Yet she comes anyway.

First, Jesus is silent.

How many of us know that silence? We pray. We plead. We wait. And heaven seems quiet.

But she does not walk away.

She persists. She kneels before Him.

Then comes the test. The statement that sounds harsh. Yet instead of reacting with anger, instead of leaving in humiliation, she responds with astonishing humility and confidence:

“Please, Lord, for even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps.”

She not only accepts the image — but she transforms it. She is saying, in effect: “I don’t need everything. I don’t need a seat at the table. Just one crumb of Your power is enough. That is all I ask.”

She believes that even the smallest mercy from Jesus is more than enough to change her daughter’s life.

And Jesus responds immediately: “You may go, for saying this, the demon has gone out of your daughter.”

This Gospel is not about Jesus insulting a woman. It is about Jesus revealing what mature faith looks like.

Faith that keeps knocking when the door seems closed.
Faith that remains humble instead of demanding.
Faith that trusts even when God seems silent.
Faith that believes a crumb of grace is enough.

Perhaps today the Lord is testing our faith — not to push us away, but to draw out something deeper within us.

When our prayers are not answered immediately…
When we feel unheard…
When life seems unfair…

Will we walk away?
Or will we kneel and say, “Lord, help me”?

The Epiphany of the Lord: A Light for All Peoples | Sunday Reflection

The Epiphany of the Lord: A Light for All Peoples

To read the texts, click on the texts: Isa 60:1-6; Eph 3: 2-3, 5-6; Mt 2: 1-12

While we celebrated the feast of God becoming human at Christmas, today’s feast of Epiphany celebrates Him who does not remain hidden but reveals Himself as light for all peoples. Isaiah, in the first reading, proclaims it in the context of a people emerging from exile: “Rise up in splendor… your light has come.” When God’s light breaks into history, it creates communion and heals fragmentation, making His distant sons and daughters return home. Psalm 72 deepens this vision by portraying a king whose rule is marked not by authority but by service, as true service of God is inseparable from compassion and justice for those who are poor, lowly, afflicted, and have no one to help them.

Paul, in the Letter to the Ephesians, further proclaims the heart of the Epiphany mystery—the Gentiles (foreigners) are “coheirs, members of the same body”—revealing God’s saving plan has no ethnic, cultural, linguistic, religious, or any other boundaries whatsoever. The Gospel brings this revelation into a concrete, human story as the Magi, foreigners, guided by a star, search for that light with courage, humility, and perseverance. Herod, by contrast, feels threatened by the same light and responds with fear and deceit. When the Magi finally encounter God’s revelation, their journey culminates not in power or certainty, but in humility and vulnerability. They offer their treasures and then return home “by another way”—a powerful transformation from darkness to grace, from exclusion to inclusion, and from fear to freedom.

Hence, let us ask ourselves:

1. Having celebrated the birth of Christ, am I willing to be led by His light and revelation in the New Year 2026?

2. Like the Magi, what “treasures” am I called to surrender, perhaps the things I find difficult to let go?

3. In my lifework and in the world today, what does it mean for me to “return by another way”, and what must I do to “take a new road” in 2026?